Only those books are for the making of men into which a man has gone in the making.  Mere professional skill and sleight of hand, of themselves, are to be apprized as lightly in letters as in war or in government, or in any kind of leadership.  Strong native qualities only avail in the long run; and the more these dominate over the artificial endowments, sloughing or dropping the latter in the final result, the more we are refreshed and enlarged.  Who has not, at some period of his life, been captivated by the rhetoric and fine style of nearly all the popular authors of a certain sort, but at last waked up to discover that behind these brilliant names was no strong, loving man, but only a refined taste, a fertile invention, or a special talent of one kind or another.

Think of the lather of the modern novel, and the fashion-plate men and women that figure in it!  What noble person has Dickens sketched, or has any novelist since Scott?  The utter poverty of almost every current novelist, in any grand universal human traits in his own character, is shown in nothing more clearly than in the kind of interest the reader takes in his books.  We are led along solely by the ingenuity of the plot, and a silly desire to see how the affair came out.  What must be the effect, long continued, of this class of jugglers working upon the sympathies and the imagination of a nation of gestating women?

How the best modern novel collapses before the homely but immense human significance of Homer’s celestial swineherd entertaining divine Ulysses, or even the solitary watchman in Aeschylus’ “Agamemnon,” crouched, like a night-dog, on the roofs of the Atreidae, waiting for the signal fires that should announce the fall of sacred Ilion!

But one need not look long, even in contemporary British literature, to find a man.  In the author of “Characteristics” and “Sartor Resartus” we surely encounter one of the true heroic cast.  We are made aware that here is something more than a litterateur, something more than genius.  Here is veracity, homely directness and sincerity, and strong primary idiosyncrasies.  Here the man enters into the estimate of the author.  There is no separating them, as there never is in great examples.  A curious perversity runs through all, but in no way vitiates the result.  In both his moral and intellectual nature, Carlyle seems made with a sort of stub and twist, like the best gun-barrels.  The knotty and corrugated character of his sentences suits well the peculiar and intense activity of his mind.  What a transition from his terse and sharply articulated pages, brimming with character and life, and a strange mixture of rage, humor, tenderness, poetry, philosophy, to the cold disbelief and municipal splendor of Macaulay!  Nothing in Carlyle’s contributions seems fortuitous.  It all flows from a good and sufficient cause in the character of the man.